Written in the Skies
by seven dragons
Summary: Soulmate AU. In a world where the first words your soulmate speaks to you can mean everything or nothing, Lucien and Jean must decide if the bond they share is an accident of fate or something far more profound.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: If this chapter looks familiar, it is based on a 300 word fic I wrote for the tumblr drabble challenge on the topic of soulmates. The rest of the story is an expansion on that idea.**

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It had been this way since time immemorial. The first words your soulmate would say to you when they met you for the first time appeared shortly after birth. Jean's Script, like most women's, was in an elegant black cursive on the inside of her right wrist. On men it was usually the left. Many said that this must be a joke from the gods, much to the consternation of the church. The vast majority of soulmate quotes were variations on "Hello." As a result, no one really knew how many people found their true loves and many never bothered to look. The church made a fuss from time to time about how the devoted wait, but most people just went about their lives and marriages and the church knew better than to try to impede it.

Jean's was slightly different than the norm. "Do you mind?" was tattooed in neat, tight letters on her wrist. Her family often teased her that given her curious nature she would hear that often in life. It had led to confusion several times as a little girl as she trailed off after strangers in the street, convinced she was meeting her one true love only to be pushed back in the direction of her mother. One terrifying day in Year 3 those were the first words spoken to her by an ancient school marm who scowled as Jean rifled through her desk. After that Jean learned to be less eager.

By the time she met Cristopher, Jean had stopped running after every man and woman who uttered that phrase. As dedicated as she was to the church it was simply not practical. After she fell pregnant the question had become academic. Christopher would be her husband and they would make a life together. She worried more than once during their marriage if he really was her soulmate but there was no telling for sure. They had known each other since they were children and she could not recall what his first words were to her. Christopher's tattoo simply said "No," so it was entirely possible. Jean never broached the topic with him directly for fear of revealing her occasional doubts.

Many years had passed since Christopher's death and Jean no longer gave a second thought to the words. The Script was just another part of her body, like a freckle or an eyelash. She had been living for years with Dr. Thomas Blake, managing his home and medical practice. It was not the life she had dreamed of but it kept a roof over her head and a chance to put away a little money for the future. As his health had started to fail she had progressed from housekeeper to nurse and Jean worried for the future. While she knew in her heart he would never recover she insisted on maintaining the house and office to a professional standard, just in case he might have need of them. Despite keeping the office tidy a silence had invaded the space, as if the walls and furniture were aware of their disuse. It was on one of these futile days that Jean was in his surgery sorting through some medical supplies, when she was startled by an unfamiliar voice.

"Do you mind? I may need those."

She did not hear the door open. In fact she had swore it was locked. The man standing before her had a close cropped beard, piecing blue eyes, and an imperious demeanor. Jean was stunned by the arrogance of the stranger who let himself into the house without permission and thought he could boss her around.

"Who are you?" Jean did not ask so much as shout.

Before he could answer Jean proceeded to give the stranger a piece of her mind. The man backed down and was quick to offer his apologies. Apparently neither one had been informed of the other and each had made assumptions. Jean had sent a telegram weeks ago to Dr. Blake's estranged son. Knowing a little of their troubled history she did not expect a reply, let alone to see the man standing in front of her in the flesh. Once the initial confusion was sorted out Jean insisted on serving him tea and cake while she made up his room. He was hesitant to accept but Jean would take no argument. She all but ordered him to follow her into the kitchen.

Lucien Blake left the encounter a little shaken. Standing with his back to the wall outside the kitchen he unbuttoned his left shirt sleeve and glanced at the bold blue text, "Who are you?" that was emblazoned there. Lucien wondered about it and then quickly put the idea out of his mind. His father was dying, this wasn't the time to find out. Lucien buttoned his sleeve and joined Jean in the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucien never believed in the Script. When he was young and in love with his own brilliance he was determined to be the master of his own fate. When he was older and saw what cruelties the world brought he thought it as a farce. That some higher power should care so deeply which two people spent their lives together but did not give a whit if children starved or men tortured each other was ludicrous. And he observed early on that having a generic marker as a sign of divine intervention gave the church a lot of room to intercede on its own behalf. More often than not when pressed by an influential congregant they would "discover" soulmates in the form of a partner the parents approved of from an important family. Likewise the church could be persuaded to take a strong stance against marrying non-soulmates if the parents disapproved. Like all things religious, Lucien saw them for what they were: made by man, manipulated by man, for the benefit of man.

This was in spite of the many lectures by his father, the one man he knew to earnestly believe he had married his soulmate. He claimed that they recognized their shared words on the day they met. He said they had been inexplicably drawn to one another from across a crowded room. His mother had described kissing Thomas like feeling a shimmering light inside of her. Their story sounded to Lucien suspiciously like a love song he heard once on the wireless. He had long suspected some embellishment on both their parts. Lucien had remembered bitterly over the years how often his father would use his alleged soulmate union as proof of Thomas' moral superiority, yet as a child Thomas would deride him for being soft and having hysterics "just like your mother." It was under the brunt of one of these rebukes as a teenager that Lucien finally snarled back,

"Well, which is it? Was she a hysteric or your soulmate? I know you'd never marry a hysteric."

His father looked like he had been slapped in the face and Lucien was pleased to see it. So rather than make his home in Ballarat he joined the army and proceeded to drink, revel, and sleep his way across half the globe. That all ended the day he met Mei Lin Cheng in Singapore. The daughter of a wealthy local dignitary, he fell in love with her nearly instantly. Her Script was neither the Hokkien Chinese of her ancestors nor the Latin Malay of the region, but a formal greeting elegantly spelled out in Tamil.

"I guess this means I am destined to marry a foreigner."

Lucien wholeheartedly agreed. Neither of them seemed concerned that he was not from India. They married a year later and a daughter soon followed. They would have married sooner, but Lucien had wanted time to go home to see his father. They did not get on well but he hoped his father would share in this one joy with him. He loved Mei Lin with all his heart, he thought his father would certainly do the same.

It would be the last conversation they would ever have. Lucien returned home bursting with excitement to tell his father he had found his match, that he would share the happiness Thomas once knew with his mother.

Thomas took one look at the small black and white photograph and deadpanned, "She is not your soulmate."

Lucien knew there was no way he could tell that from the photograph. Mei Lin's arms were covered, and Thomas had made no effort to inquire about the circumstances of their meeting. Lucien knew what Thomas was trying to say.

"She is yellow."

"She is pagan."

"She is a foreign savage."

Any number of other insults would have amounted to the same thing. To Thomas, it was not possible that this woman could ever really be his soulmate. Lucien had failed again. That Thomas was technically right did not matter. The hypocrisy of the church was writ large all over Thomas' face. Lucien left the house and did not speak to him again.

Lucien returned to Singapore determined to leave his old life behind, but his hopes were short lived. World War II devoured Asia and Lucien's little family would not be spared. Lucien ended up a prisoner of the Japanese, the fate of his wife and child were unknown. When he was finally free he stayed behind in Asia, selling his soul to the British intelligence community in exchange for the resources he needed to look for his wife and child.

In the decade abroad his life had grown dark, often feeling bleaker than his days in the camps. He lived a solitary life, moving from country to country as assignments required. More often than not when he did his job well people's lives were ruined. Haunted by memories of his days as a POW and no closer to finding his family, he started to drink. Perhaps in those days, vacillating wildly between careful professional discipline and nights howling with fear, he let a touch of nostalgia creep in. He started to get a sense that whatever he turned his back on in Ballarat might not be better than what he had now, but maybe it wasn't worse either. So when he received a telegram at his office in Hong Kong and saw it was from Australia he didn't immediately throw it out, even though he assumed it was the latest message of disdain from his father. Curiosity got the better of him.

The telegraph was unsigned and not from Thomas, but it was about him. FATHER ILL STOP PLEASE COME SOON.

Now he stood in the hallway of his childhood home with no sign of his father, being brought to heel by a woman he didn't even know using words that were eerily familiar to him. He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly and followed Jean into the kitchen.

In his first days in Ballarat Lucien had little time to concern himself with affairs of the heart. He learned that his father's heart troubles had become complicated by a stroke while he was en route from Hong Kong. He could no longer speak, and there was nothing to do now but wait. Jean wanted to have Thomas released from the hospital so he could spend his last days at home, but without a relative to take responsibility the hospital had refused. Jean was nearly apoplectic over it, so on his very first day he promised he'd try his best to bring Thomas home. This was the very last thing Lucien wanted but he could tell immediately there would be no peace otherwise. It took a few days to arrange the discharge and home nurse visits but he managed it. They could not care for Thomas in his cramped bedroom but there was a larger bedroom towards the back of the house. In the end, Thomas lasted two days. Lucien did not get to make his peace with his father or even determine if Thomas knew that he was there. He seemed to recognize Jean, could manage a half-frozen smile and reach weakly out to her, but he did not make eye contact with Lucien once.

The funeral was open casket with all the high church trimmings. Jean sat weeping in the front pew, the dutiful grieving daughter surrounded by a throng of Thomas' friends and admirers. Lucien sat mute off to the side, a stranger in his own land. The very air in the place felt alien and oppressive. By the time Thomas was buried it had been less than ten days since his arrival in Ballarat. He could barely wrap his head around the change in place, the change in circumstance, the bizarre expectation that he should instantly go from estranged son to grieving orphan. To make it worse, there were many demands on his time that he was not prepared for. His father's housekeeper needed to be let go, his patients transferred, the house sold. Lucien saw no reason to remain. He was frustrated by the fact that everyone behaved as if he were there to stay. Thomas' patients kept calling. Jean expected him home for dinner. His father was barely in the ground when an old family friend, Patrick Tynneman, showed up with an offer to join the Colonists' Club. It was insulting, the thought that he would stay behind for these insignificant people, and he told him as much. Patrick was not pleased.

To make things worse his demons followed him from Hong Kong, as they had all throughout Asia. His nightmares returned with a vengeance. He could not abide to be near people, but left alone too long he would have panic attacks. Only a strong drink could keep him on an even keel, so he drank constantly. In the Intelligence Service, no one much cared how he behaved in his spare time as long as he completed each assignment with as little mess as possible. It was an odd contradiction for an agency that required strict adherence to orders, but if you fulfilled those orders and got results they were willing to tolerate pretty much anything. Lucien quickly found out the same did not hold for the citizens of Ballarat. First among those was Jean. She made no bones of the fact that she did not feel Lucien measured up to his father's standards. Lucien could not fathom how she held such a cruel man up on a pedestal. He was tempted to challenge her on a number of occasions over it but he always held his tongue. There was no point arguing over the dead. She seemed determined to protect his father's legacy at all costs, even if it was from Lucien as well. One night, with Jean fussing over his late night drinking, he finally lost his temper and suggested that she find work with a more respectable employer. Jean looked like she had been slapped in the face. He could tell she was holding back tears. Lucien immediately regretted saying it but did not apologize. He would be moving on soon, Jean needed to as well.

Despite all this, Lucien wasn't without friends in Ballarat. He quickly bonded with their lodger, a young nurse named Mattie. Jean's nephew Danny was a constable with the police and was frequently in the house. The police superintendent turned out to be an old school mate of his and convinced Lucien to work on a few cases as police surgeon in place of his father. Thomas' patients viewed Lucien as a continuation of his father's care and rejoiced when he agreed to continue treating them.

Jean was a living contradiction that more often than not left him confused and feeling like he was a step behind. Even when she was sharp-tongued and disapproving she was a great support to him. She cooked for him and cleaned, and more than once had to pack him off to bed when he was too drunk to find his room on his own. She took it upon herself to wake him from his night terrors when most people would have avoided him like the plague. She was also terribly bright; he suspected she didn't realize quite how intelligent she really was. More and more he came to value her insight both in murder and medical cases, especially when it came to the history and motives of local residents.

In the end it was Jean's bravery that impressed him most of all. Hot on the trail of a killer, Lucien had confronted an army sergeant he suspected of the murder. Cornered in his office, the sergeant pulled a gun on him. Suddenly Jean was there, her own pistol drawn. Her hand was shaking but her aim never faltered. Lucien was not sure what offended Jean more, that the sergeant was a murderer or that he had threatened someone inside her home. Lucien realized that night how foolish he had been to dismiss her. Without asking, Jean had folded Lucien in under the umbrella of her family and would give her life to protect him. It was not since meeting his own wife in Singapore that Lucien had experienced such devotion. Lucien asked her to stay the following evening. The strange coincidence of the Script on the day they met weighed on his mind from time to time. However since Jean seemed to barely tolerate him on most days, Lucien decided it was most likely a coincidence. He reasoned this was certainly the best for the both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

In the weeks since she first found Lucien rifling through her father's things, Jean felt like she could hardly get her bearings. She had been subject to nude paintings, loose women about the house, and nearly engaged in a gun fight with a member of the Queen's army. Initially she was pleased to think of having a man about the house again, a man to carry on the doctor's legacy and to tend to his much neglected affairs. Jean's life had been focused on Thomas for so long and she was apprehensive to face the future after him. Lucien was an intelligent man, well spoken, with an impressive professional pedigree. When he returned to Ballarat she felt her future situation might be in good hands after all. Jean quickly learned how wrong she was.

Jean wasn't a housekeeper so much as a nursemaid chasing after an unruly child. He was messy, undisciplined, and inclined to insult people. He smoked and his drinking was out of control. She never knew if he was coming home for dinner or if he would stay out all night. Angry phone calls from people he offended in town became a regular occurrence. Jean had even developed a sixth sense for knowing when he had got into some sort of scrape and kept the medical kit on hand. However despite this, there were flashes of such kindness in him that it was difficult for Jean to write him off entirely. He was always trying to care for others, especially his father's old patients. He had taken an interest in Mattie and Danny. He saw the good in people and did not write someone off as a friend simply because they were of a different station in life. When he wasn't being completely impossible Jean had to admit she enjoyed his company. He seemed keen to engage her on any number of subjects, especially when he was working with the police superintendent on a murder case. Lucien could be quite charming when he wanted to be and Jean was not beyond flattery. Every time Jean thought she could bear no more of his antics, some kind word or compassionate act would draw her back in.

She had gone through a difficult patch a few weeks ago, on account of a different man this time. The director of the church dramatic society had set his cap for Jean and he was serious about it. Jean felt like her heart was torn in two. She had always hoped to remarry, to make more of her life than domestic help while she filled her spare time with knitting and church committees. But Robert was so bland he was almost invisible. Jean did not love him, did not even fancy him, and she felt if she married him for convenience her world would be even smaller than it was now. But to say no might be to close the door on her last opportunity for marriage and all the benefits that entailed. In the end she rejected him, but it pained her to do so. Jean never told Lucien what was going on but somehow he knew. Jean thought she hid her emotions well but perhaps she was giving herself too much credit. After it was all over, Lucien surprised her by insisting on attending the play she was to perform in alongside Robert. She thought he was joking, but true to his word he was there on opening night. She did not need to find him in the audience. Jean knew he was there, and somehow just knowing that was enough to soothe her heart.

So Jean stayed on, even when she couldn't stand him. She hoped a firm hand and some discipline might put him on the right track. He all but fired Jean one night. It broke her heart, not to be rid of him but to realize she lost in her battle to keep the Blake name in good repute. Without her there would surely be disaster. Then suddenly a few days later he asked her to stay with such sweet sincerity Jean could not say no.

It was clear to Jean that Lucien's problems went beyond needing someone to keep his boorish behavior in check. Jean knew the signs. The old vets of the Great War called it shell shock. He was jumpy and hesitant to be left alone. When Lucien wasn't causing a great ruckus he could just as easily leap with fright at a distant sound. The worst part was the nightmares. Dreadful cries would escape his room at night. It broke her heart but she was powerless to stop them. More than once Jean stood outside Lucien's door, staring, imagining what would happen if she just slipped in and held him until his demons subsided. Jean turned back every time. It was a preposterous thing to do to a man she barely knew, and it was positively immoral. Jean suspected much of his drinking was to try to quiet a tormented mind. When he drank heavily the nightmares were usually held at bay, at least as far as Jean could tell. This didn't make him any easier to deal with. Lucien was not a mean drunk, and Jean was thankful for that, but his frenetic ways only became worse once he got going. He often would not make it to bed without Jean's help. Some days he never went to bed at all.

This particular evening, Jean knew well in advanced they were both in for a long night. A murder case he was working had gone spectacularly badly. Lucien's erratic behavior was catching up to him. He now had an entire asylum of doctor's writing letters of reprimand and the superintendent had threatened to sack him. Above all, Lucien was humiliated. He was trying so hard to prove himself to everyone that he made foolish mistakes, and those mistakes were hurting other people. Jean did not condone his behavior but she felt sorry for him. It did not surprise her to find him awake close to midnight slumped over the old piano, barely able to stand and banging away at the keys. Jean could smell the whiskey before she even entered the room. Jean was surprised at first to hear him. He didn't just play but played well. Jean wished he would choose to do so when he wasn't hopelessly drunk and told him as much. It didn't seem to matter. He was lost to self pity and alcohol. Jean was able to wrestle him off the piano and into his bedroom but not before he knocked a glass of whiskey all over the carpet. Jean left it behind in favor of getting him into bed. She knew there would be no rest tonight otherwise.

Jean pulled Lucien's arm over her shoulder and supported him with her other arm around his waist and together they staggered down the hall. She had needed to carry her husband off to bed this way on more than one occasion but Lucien was making her an expert in human balance and momentum. Jean wondered how they made it at all without upsetting any end tables. Lucien's room was cramped in the best of circumstances, and the dark furniture and small windows only made the effect worse. It was a tight fit for her to maneuver him onto the bed and lay him down. Carefully she removed his shoes and undid the first two buttons of his collar. She might have been embarrassed but Lucien was unlikely to remember in the morning. If she thought for a moment that he remembered nights like these then she would have been more distant. But he was such a sorry figure she could not help but pity him.

It was nights like these, in the brief moments of quiet between the chaos that she felt drawn to him. Jean wondered if she might be able to ease his burden some if only he would let her. Her feelings were at odds with the relationship they had most of the time. He seemed to revel in being hard to manage and watching her clean it all up. But now he lay on the bed mute, all the fight and the self-hatred run out of him. Jean pulled a blanket up under his chin.

"Sweet Jean," he sighed.

Jean could not help but smirk at that, and patted him gently on the chest. She would not have dared to take such liberties in broad daylight but it hardly mattered now, when he would never remember what happened in the morning. She turned to leave and felt his hand catch her wrist. His eyes were barely open but he was looking right at her.

"Sweet Jean...soulmate you know...words."

With that he finally passed out cold, his arms splayed out beside him. Jean wanted to dismiss this confession for drunken blather but it was such a peculiar thing to say. Careful so as not to disturb him Jean kneeled beside the bed where his arm hung over. She loosened his cuff and examined his wrist. Her breath hitched at the sight of the blue text asking "Who are you?" Alone in his room in the dead of night it almost felt like a challenge. Was it possible? She remembered demanding to know who he was when they first met but she didn't remember her exact words. Given his penchant for sticking his nose where it didn't belong, who knows how many people demanded to know who he was over the years? She had no idea what he had said to her when they first met, only that she was startled by his voice.

At the foot of the bed Jean spotted another mystery in the form of an elaborately decorated lacquer chest. She had seen Lucien huddled over its contents many times but he had all but forbid her to open it. Jean peered over the bed and saw Lucien was fast asleep. This might be her only chance to find out what was inside. If she was to understand him better, Jean reasoned a quick glance would not hurt. Jean carefully opened the lid and looked inside. It was mostly letters documenting his recent search for his wife. One envelope held photos. The photos depicted a happy family, Lucien, a Chinese woman, and a little girl. It was the sort of formal photo that could only be of his wife and child. Jean was shocked. She had always assumed his family would be British, he had never suggested otherwise. Of course he never spoke of them and neither did Thomas. Suddenly everything made sense. His estrangement from his father, his hatred of Ballarat, it was all for the love of a woman whom the world would never accept. Such a love could only have been borne of soulmates. Jean glanced briefly at the Script on her own wrist. She barely thought about it these days, but she remembered the little girl who was so sure she would meet her soulmate, believing her dashing prince was out there somewhere. Perhaps it was for the best. She would not have to spend her life caring for an impossible drunkard. If she was not bound to Lucien then she was free to leave at any time.

"Jean..."

Jean jerked her head up, nearly slamming the lid of the box shut. He whispered her name again, but he was still asleep. Jean wondered if he was dreaming about her. She knew she should be horrified but a part of her wanted it. He occupied her thoughts so much of the time she could not help but wonder what he thought of her, or wonder if he thought of her at all. However it was a reminder that she had no business in his room at this hour of night. It was time for her to go up to her own room and go to bed. Alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucien Blake was trapped in Ballarat again. Nothing was forcing him to stay, but every time he thought about selling his father's home and closing the practice to resume his life in Asia, something made him stop. Sometimes it was a grateful patient, sometimes a kind word from an old friend, but more often than not it was Jean. He did not know the moment he became so attached to his father's imperious housekeeper but at some point he came to rely on her, the care for her, then want her. It was the last part that concerned him the most. Most men would like to have a good woman looking after them, if she were pretty all the better. But Jean was his employee, a pillar of the community living under his roof. For her sake a dalliance simply would not do. And yet there were times when he did not think he was alone in this attraction. She would seek him out when she knew something was troubling him. She gladly accepted his company at the Begonia Festival and other events about town. She would linger with him over drinks on many evenings and they had shared countless teas in the kitchen and the sunroom. It was these quiet times that he cherished the most. Evenings when clever conversation didn't matter, when he was not "the doctor" and merely Lucien, friend and companion to Mrs. Jean Beazley. When they were alone together this way he felt his mind quiet and the finer details of employee relations did not matter. It felt as if they both were where they belonged.

Lucien did not intend to tell Jean how he felt. If he were to scare her off it would be unthinkable. At least he had her friendship. His days seemed brighter lately. The nightmares that plagued him had subsided somewhat. And above all, he had a reason to come home at night. Still there were evenings when Jean would say goodnight and Lucien could hear her walking softly up to her bedroom and Lucien was filled with such longing that he almost went after her. He had heard stories, not just from his father but whispered in pubs, bragged about in barracks, and giggled about in school about two people intensely drawn to each other. But he reasoned the same could be said of common lust. Two lonely people finding a shared cause in each other was not an extraordinary thing. Yet he could not quite shake from his mind the coincidence of Jean speaking the words on his wrist the first day of their acquaintance.

The concept chafed at him. He had never believed in the Script, or the church, and had been unconcerned with the silly stories created by a need to explain a cosmic act of randomness. He made a half-hearted effort to to pursue Joy McDonald just to prove he was still master of his own fate. His efforts had disastrous consequences. He tried not even to consider that she might have been collateral damage, divine retribution for his failure to pursue the church's path. But even given his poor opinion of the church that seemed a cruel assessment. In the end Lucien knew he never could have gone through with it. Joy was many things, but she wasn't Jean. He knew there was a word for the way his heart leaped into his throat every time he saw her. A word for how he felt drawn to her, in the house, when he saw her about town, even at crime scenes. He knew why when she left a room he felt like a little piece of him was leaving with her. Lucien put that word out of his mind. Lucien had brought nothing but ruin to the people he loved. He did not want Jean to suffer the same fate. Besides which, they barely knew each other.

Oddly enough the conversation of soulmates had come up between them before. He recalled the week he returned from China. Rebuffed by his daughter, all he wanted was to retreat to the peace of his home and mourn his loss. Instead he was plagued by disappointment at every turn. Nell Clasby dead. Danny gone. And beautiful Joy McDonald, the first woman who he had considered as a romantic possibility in many years, brutally murdered. To make things worse, Jean seemed to follow him everywhere. At the time he was annoyed. Why wouldn't she just let him be? It wasn't until much later he realized how concerned she must have been for him. After Joy's killer was in jail Lucien drove out to Lake Wendouree to try and clear his head. He did not know what he would do next. He had spent the last seventeen years focused on finding his family and with that issue at least partially resolved he was lost. He felt as is his return had caused more problems than leaving did. Would Jean even want him back? It seemed like an odd thought considering it was his house, but she spent more time there than he did. He had barely cobbled together a life in Ballarat after his father died. There was nothing to keep him from going back to Hong Kong. Perhaps with time Li would allow him into her life. A knock on the car window startled him out of his thoughts. He wondered how Jean always managed to find him. He was annoyed to see those bright eyes peering at him through the car window but felt he had no choice but to let her in. In the end he was glad he did. He knew he could at least trust Jean and he had few friends he trusted these days. Lucien told Jean about the trip and confessed his failures regarding Li and Mei Lin, and about his shortcomings as a father in general. Jean's response surprised him.

"Was she your soulmate? Your wife?"

Jean did not make eye contact but instead was staring straight ahead, looking out across the water. Lucien sighed heavily.

"No. But I loved her."

Jean was silent for a long time. Lucien did not wonder why she asked such an oddly personal question. He was so tired, of everything, that he was inclined to humor Jean's intrusiveness. Jean placed a hand gently on his wrist, the one where his tattoo lie hidden under many layers of clothing, the text ignored but as sharp as ever. Lucien looked up and there was nothing but compassion in her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

After a few words of encouragement, Lucien started the two-tone sedan and drove them back towards their home.

Something shifted between them after that. Lucien had not regarded Jean as a romantic possibility at first. He had always cared for her, and had always found her handsome, but for both their sakes he considered her strictly off limits. She was merely a reliable friend. But after that day he seemed to draw closer to her. He began to regard her as a partner, on murder cases and at home. She was one of the few people he trusted. Jean for her part seemed to warm towards him. She was as likely to roll her eyes at some of his unsavory antics rather than lecture him. She seemed comfortable in his presence, Lucien thought sometimes she sought him out as home as much as he did her. Without realizing it Lucien had started to behave more familiar towards her. A touch to the back, a hand on her cheek. He was not trying to be forward but it just seemed to happen naturally, and Jean did not object.

It was working on a case, that damned dead foreign agent, that everything had been made clear. Lucien was working in his office late at night, trying to decrypt a cipher that might yield the clue that broke the case wide open. Lucien took this case personally. He and the unknown agent were kindred souls in a way. Strangers in a strange land, both had shorn their identities and homes to serve a foreign master. Lucien had gradually found his way back. This man had not. Jean came in, as she always did in the evening, checking in on him under the pretense of saying goodnight. She was immediately drawn into the mystery of the secret code on the chalk board. Lucien loved this about Jean. Her inquisitive mind could often shine light into corners where his could not. Her appreciation for a puzzle to solve reminded him why he did this work in the first place. Their conversation turned to the covert affairs that the victim might have been involved in and Lucien said too much. Jean caught on immediately.

"Is that what you used to do?"

The look on Jean's face was both shrewd and curious, as if she already knew the answer. Lucien hesitated for no more than a moment. He did not even consider whether it was appropriate for Jean to know that he had worked as a spy, let alone if it was legal. It just seemed natural. For reasons Lucien could not comprehend, he thought Jean deserved to know.

"Yes."

In another place with any other person this revelation might have been monumental. But Jean just nodded and moved on. It turned out that Jean had her mind on her own secrets.

"We never had a funeral for Christopher."

Lucien was stunned. He knew that Jean had suffered a great loss during the war but she spoke so rarely of it. Now she stared straight ahead in the dark room, exposing her pain. Lucien desperately wanted to take her into his arms, to kiss her and promise Jean she would never be alone again. He was afraid that doing so would scare her off. Paralyzed with indecision, Jean took his silence for disinterest and left the room. Lucien spent the rest of the night trying to drink away his feelings. He made very little progress in solving the cipher, but somewhere in the alcohol-fogged recesses of his mind he decided to tell Jean how he felt.

This current case presented a unique opportunity. He needed to revisit the crime scene, a pleasant spot at a local park popular with families and couples to wile away a few hours in the sun. Lucien invited Jean under the pretense of needing her help on the case. He hoped if they were alone together, out of earshot of their lodgers and free of other responsibilities, perhaps they could talk more freely. Much later, upon reflection, Lucien realized that sitting in the stained dirt left by a murder victim might not have been the ideal romantic setting for such a conversation. At the time it was the best he could come up with.

Things did not go as planned from the beginning. He has asked Jean to bring a picnic kit and blanket with her but he neglected to ask her to make a picnic lunch for them. He just assumed she would understand his intentions. Lucien drove from the police station, leaving Jean to carry the gear on foot all the way into town. By the time they arrived at the site she was tired and impatient. The nearness to a murder scene left her ill at ease. Lucien got to the business at hand, recreating a liaison between two lovers, but Jean was reluctant to participate. Finally, at his urging, Jean wrapped her arms roughly around his neck. Despite the scowl on her face and her businesslike assessment of what the lovers might have been up to, Lucien's mind was reeling. They had never been so close. Her legs were pressed again his. Her face was inches away. Lucien was losing his train of thought, away from the case and their personal situation. A voice was screaming inside his head to kiss her. Instead he backed away, removing her hands from his neck and holding them in his. Jean looked at him expectantly, her face a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Jean, do you ever think about soulmates?"

Jean furrowed her brow.

"Is this for the case?"

"Um, yes! Humor me. How much do you think about soulmates?"

"Not often. I know what the church says."

"But you and Christopher were, " Lucien gestured vaguely over their clasped hands, "Right?"

Jean lowered her head, her voice almost inaudible.

"I'm not sure."

Lucien's heart started pounding in his chest and it took all of his self control not to start grinning. This was a source of pain for Jean, not an opportunity for celebration. Even though he understood he had no real reason to think they were soulmates, there was hope. Suddenly confessing his feelings to Jean seemed inadequate. Why tell her about his feelings in abstract when he might be able to prove it?

"May I?"

Lucien reached for her wrist. She was always so carefully covered up, but he needed to see what her Script said. It might not matter in the end if they weren't soulmates, but it would matter a great deal if they were. However before he could explain himself Jean pulled back both hands and stared intensely over his shoulder.

"Lucien. There's someone in the bushes."

Lucien turned, placing a protective arm around her waist. Seeing the same movement she did, Lucien silently cursed God, the church, and several other religious entities just for good measure. He had never been so unhappy to have a break in the case. A witness they had been searching for was hiding in a tall stand of rhododendrons, watching them.


	5. Chapter 5

Jean had not been entirely truthful that afternoon in the park. She told Lucien that she did not think much about soulmates, but in reality the subject had been on her mind of late. It was not something she had given much thought to for many years, however the last few months were different. Since that night she found him drunk by the piano she couldn't help but wonder. Jean surprised herself how much she mourned the discovery of his wife and what she thought she knew about their relationship. However secrets mumbled in the dead of night did not change his erratic ways, and she found little time for romantic thoughts just keeping him out of trouble and ensuring the medical practice stayed afloat. In the end it was all for nought. He left the country in pursuit of his daughter but not before spectacularly burning every bridge he could. But one traitorous thought kept slipping back into her mind...what if? What if he knew something Jean didn't? What if it wasn't all drunken nonsense? There were also other less ethereal problems that concerned her. She wanted him, more than she had wanted any man in years.

She remembered the morning after that dreadful night when he went on a drunken rampage at the reception for the British consul. Hungover, he was stretched out on his own examination table just feet from where she was working, as if lying about together were the usual way of things between them. Casually he mentioned that somehow, in between getting out of jail and having his career ruined, he managed to provoke a man into threatening him at gunpoint. Just hours before she had given Lucien a piece of her mind and he appeared to have learned nothing. There were not enough words in the English language to describe how arrogant he was. Jean told herself it was her outrage that was keeping her from concentrating on her work. But outrage did not make her stare at his body prone in front of her and wonder how it would feel if she were pinned against the table with him. It didn't make her heart wrench with pity as he winced in pain, stiff from a night in the cells, even though he deserved it. Lucien's name had come up in confession so many times that Jean thought the poor priest was going to recommend she consult the Lonely Hearts column in the Courier. Of late she found herself lingering late at night in Lucien's office. Under the guise of checking up on him before she went to bed, she would sit in the dimly lit room and watch him drink, listening to his troubles and enjoying a few private moments alone with him. It wasn't much, but it was all she had.

Jean rarely doubted the church, but there were times like these that she wished it would offer more than homilies on vaguely defined divine matches. The church could write an unbreakable rule for every behavior, a precise order of ritual for every occasion. How could something as important as marriage come down to an indicator so open to interpretation as the Script? Why was the church so loathe to discuss other lore and behavior between soulmates? There were other aspects to the Script whispered about between women when no one was looking. The way Jean always knew where he was in town. The way her heart constricted and she'd know without knowing that he was coming home with a black eye or a bruised rib. The way she swore she could feel her skin twitching underneath her Script when he was near. The church said nothing on these things. Jean was unsure if she was imagining them. Her own history had taught her that neither lust nor schoolgirl fantasies had anything to do with finding a celestial partner, so she kept her thoughts to herself. What Lucien didn't know could not hurt either of them.

Lucien certainly made no further efforts beyond the first drunken admission. In fact, when he finally came home from China brimming with a newfound enthusiasm for domesticity he paid Jean little attention. Instead he opted to pursue the affections of a journalist half his age. While Jean had no reason to think she was Lucien's soulmate, she was confident that Joy McDonald wasn't it either. As she had reminded herself so many times, lust did not a soulmate make. Jean did not know what was written on Joy MacDonald's wrist, but she was sure it must include the words "push-up bra."

In time, they settled back into their old routine. Jean reveled in their late night talks and the intellectual companionship he offered. She took his attention with a grain of salt. It was Joy's untimely death not Jean's charms that were keeping him home for dinner. Lucien could not muster enough interest in her life to comfort her when she spoke of Christopher's death, let alone make a significant romantic declaration. Jean realized she needed to push these foolish thoughts out of her head and get on with her own life.

True to form and unpredictable to the last, Lucien started talking of soulmates again just as Jean was trying to put the idea aside. Only Lucien would pick a known trysting spot to discuss a murder case and she was loathe to play along. It was challenging enough to go to bed each night knowing he was just a few steps away. Sitting with her arms wrapped around him imitating other people's real carnal experiences was almost too much to bear. It took all of her willpower to maintain her composure. Jean was stunned when the conversation took such a personal turn. She pretended to be unaware of why he was asking about soulmates but Jean knew this could not be a coincidence. Why would a man who seemed disinterested in her pursue this line of inquiry? She wanted to scream and she wanted desperately to kiss him, at the same time if possible. When he took her hands in his she could swear she felt her wrist buzzing against his own. It was over as quickly as it started thanks to the intervention of a local drifter and Jean wondered if the sensation was in her head. It grieved her that she might never know.


	6. Chapter 6

Two steps forward, one step back. That's how it seemed to Lucien. He lay stretched out on a wicker chair on a warm spring day in the garden, the smell of green grass and fresh laundry wafting enticingly overhead. He was well aware of Jean's personal garments hanging on the line and made an effort not to notice, lest he get caught in a compromising position. Instead he covered his head with the afternoon Courier to shade him from the sun in an attempt to focus his thoughts elsewhere. His focus returned to the Fox Trot. That is what he and Jean seemed to be doing, an out of step Fox Trot. They would glide gracefully together and then stumble apart, only to start over again with the same results. Their dance was not intimate enough to be a Waltz nor racy enough to be a Tango, though he'd love to try. His thoughts drifted back to the brasserie on the clothesline. Jean in a brasserie dancing the Tango. Lucien snapped the newspaper off his face and leaped up. Whatever he was thinking was going nowhere good. He stalked back into the house and towards his surgery.

"There you are. I thought you were in the garden."

Lucien jumped. Jean seemed to be expecting something and for a brief moment Lucien panicked, afraid that she could read his thoughts.

"Yes, well I was in the garden. And now I am in here."

Lucien smiled broadly. Jean appeared concerned.

"Everything alright, Lucien? It's almost time to leave."

"Leave?"

"The road race. Charlie is running in it?"

Lucien hit his desk with the palm of his hand.

"The race! Of course. Let's leave now so we can find a good spot."

He all but dragged Jean out of the house, happy to escape his own distracting thoughts. They drove to the race in silence. Lucien had not regained the courage to resume the conversation he started that day in the park. He became consumed by the case at hand, and then another, and it became too easy to let work become and excuse to avoid the issue. He feared that if he asked her about it, things could end in disaster. Jean could be outraged or worse, she might leave entirely. It wasn't until a few months later that Lucien realized that he lacked imagination when considering what might happen if he told Jean how he felt. He had not considered the effect of staying silent until he came home one evening to find Jean in a stunning green dress and an elegant hair style serving drinks to another man. He knew he had no right to be jealous; he had pursued other romantic interests, Jean could as well. It just never occurred to him that Jean was wanting for companionship, that she might want more in life than serving him tea in the morning, and it made him ashamed that he had expected so much when he offered her so little. Still it didn't keep the beast of jealousy from roaring in his chest. He tried his best to cast suspicion on the man. When he turned out to be right and he saw the tears well up in Jean's eyes it nearly broke his heart. After that he didn't know how to move forward or what to say. They were still close, but there was no graceful way to say to someone "Sorry your boyfriend was a murderer but I was waiting for you the whole time." And he was still waiting, but for what he didn't know. The impulse to tell her never went away. When she was mourning the death of her priest, and in some ways the last ties to her past with Christopher, it was all he could do to pull her into his arms. When he stayed up all night in his mother's studio trying to make sense of the past, Jean found him in the morning. She was like a vision of the dawn, pale and soft in the morning light, and he was so grateful he could share it with her. But still, he hesitated.

At the race, they found a spot in the shade near the finish line to cheer on the runners. Charlie won a respectable second place but Jean rushed past him.

"Jack?"

Lucien looked at Jean greeting a tall young man with dark hair and bright green eyes so much like Jean's own. Something in his gut twisted, the same way it did when he was in the field and knew someone he was following had caught on to him. The prodigal son had returned. He knew he aught to be happy for a chance to finally meet Jean's youngest but something just wasn't right. Lucien resolved to treat him like his own anyway. Jean deserved that.

Sadly his first impression was correct, as it usually was. In the shadow of a horrible crime, Jack was accused and eventually exonerated, but the truth about Jean's youngest was not much better. He was a lout who ran around with thugs, took advantage of young women, and was likely a criminal himself. Lucien tried to do his best to help, but ended up making things worse. Jean needed a shoulder to cry on, not an analysis of the facts of the case. Lucien interrogated Jack in the house and helped the police put together a case against him. He professed his belief in Jack's innocence just to try to smooth things over but it didn't matter. Jean was furious with him.

In the midst of all the turmoil the Courier published Lucien's address and identified his house as Jack's residence. Lucien recalled Charlie walking over with the newspaper but Lucien was already rushing for the door. His heart nearly stopped in his chest and he was overcome with a sudden feeling that Jean was in danger. He would recall later that he should have been more concerned for the welfare of the assembled mob. Jean and Mattie were holding their own admirably and showed no sign of backing down. But the sight of Jean being tossed to the floor made him see red and only Charlie's intervention saved her attacker's life.

When it was all over Jack was declared an innocent man, or at least a free one. Lucien pleaded with him to stay in Ballarat. For better or for worse, he was Jean's son, and Lucien could at least try and make things right. In the end Jack left town without even saying goodbye. It did not take a soulmate or event a particularly clever man to know Jean would be devastated.

Jean had retreated to the sun room, her usual refuge from the world. Lucien watched her for a long while, gathering his thoughts. Even now she tried to remain strong and carried on, fussing over a plant instead of raging at the world. He made small talk and offered her some platitudes about home and family. Lucien did not feel like it was enough, but he needed to show her in some small way that he cared. He placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. Perhaps the events of the week had been too much for her after all. Maybe after a week of accusations and humiliation Lucien's gesture of kindness was hard to bear. Whatever it was, Jean broke down in tears. She folded herself into Lucien's arms and held him tight, sobbing into his shoulder. Lucien whispered words of comfort into her hair, rubbing his hands gently over her back.

Lucien closed his eyes and his mind was filled with her, sight, scent, and feel. It wasn't just that he had not been this close to a woman in a long time, it was that he had never been this close to _her_. He knew then that he needed her, that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He did not care if she was his soulmate. Whatever was burning between them was too precious to ignore. He knew this was the worst possible time but rational thought was quickly abandoning him. Rational thought had not previously served him well on this matter anyhow. Jean looked up at him, tears still trailing down her cheeks, a mix of hope and fear in her eyes. Lucien wished with all his heart that he knew what she was thinking. She must feel this too, or so he hoped. Lucien cradled her face in his hands, trying to convey without words the love and tenderness he felt for her. Blood was rushing to his head and his ears were ringing. The ringing stopped and started again. It wasn't until Jean started to pull away that Lucien realized it was the phone.

"I'll get it," Jean said before turning away.

Lucien nearly screamed with frustration. He reached out and grabbed Jean's wrist firmly, stopping her in her tracks.

"Let it go. We're not done yet."

Lucien stepped closer and Jean turned to face him again. Lucien put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. Suddenly he was at a loss. What could he say? What if she were frightened? He began to falter. Maybe this was all a terrible idea. She had turned to him for support and he let his imagination run wild.

"Jean, I..."

His words were cut off as Jean pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. When her lips touched his he felt a surge of white hot heat inside him. It was more than just the physical rush, it was as if her entire spirit filled him and it felt incredible. The skin on his left wrist was tingling. All of his skin was tingling. She ran her hand through his hair and it sent jolts of electricity down his spine. He did not need to see her Script. He knew. He realized he had always known, like a memory long forgotten suddenly rushing back to life.

"Do you mind," Lucien said, his voice cracking as he kissed Jean gently on the forehead. He lingered there, enjoying the feeling of his lips against her skin.

"Who are you?" Jean murmured into his chest. Overwhelmed, Jean began to sob again. Lucien pulled her close, rocking her gently.

"Shhh, it's alright. Sweet Jean, my Jean."

Somewhere in the background the phone was still ringing, ignored by both of them.


	7. Chapter 7

_Epilogue, several weeks later_

The sun had long since set over Lake Wendouree. Summer was slowly fading into fall but it was still warm. Insects chirped in the reeds as a gentle breeze rolled off the lake. Jean sat on a park bench in comfortable silence pressed against Lucien's side, taking everything in.

"It is lovely here Lucien. I can see why you like it. I've never been out here after dark."

"Yes. The city lights don't afford much view of the stars but you can see the moon well enough."

Lucien took Jean's hand and held it in his, examining the little sparks that seem to catch on the diamond ring she was wearing.

"See how it sparkles in the moonlight?"

"Actually I think that is the street lamp behind us, but it is beautiful. Thank you."

Lucien laughed.

"Show it to me?"

"Show you what?"

"You know what."

"Lucien, you know what my Script says. And it's dark out, you won't see anything."

"I want to see it anyway. Please Jean?"

Jean relented, unbuttoning the long sleeve of her blouse.

"Honestly this must be the tenth time this week."

Jean presented her arm to Lucien, who took it in both hands. He peered at it, trying to make out the details of the text in the shadows. Lowering his head, he kissed the inside of Jean's wrist, planting kisses in a line up her forearm. Jean felt a jolt of electricity shoot down her arm and spread through her body that she knew had nothing to do with soulmates.

"Lucien!" she hissed, but when Lucien looked up she was grinning.

"Come 'ere."

Lucien pulled Jean tight against her, his spare hand entwined in hers.

"It's amazing to think, isn't it Jean? All these years, all these decades, we were both out there under the same sky. We just couldn't find each other."

Jean suddenly sat upright, looking worried. She fidgeted with her engagement ring.

"Lucien, I hope you understand, I don't regret my old life. Christopher and I, well we, and my boys. If I had to do it again I'm not sure I'd choose differently."

Lucien placed his hand against Jean's cheek.

"My darling. I would never ask that of you. I could never regret Mei Lin and Li either. Sometimes we end up exactly where we're meant to be, facing the challenges we were meant to face. You and I are together now and that's all that matters."

Jean smiled at that.

"And I thought you weren't a believer."

"Oh Jeannie, every time I look at you I believe."

Leaning in towards him, Jean snaked an arm behind Lucien's neck. She could feel him shiver at her touch.

"And how, Lucien, do I know that you don't just love me because you think I'm your soulmate?"

Lucien furrowed his brow.

"Is there a difference?"

"I'm not really sure."

Lucien closed the gap between them, punctuating each word with a gentle kiss.

"Well then, soon-to-be Mrs. Blake, I plan to spend the rest of my life finding out."'

The breeze picked up, causing the grasses on the lake to rattle quietly, muffling the sounds of the town beyond. Jean thought briefly of the moon, gradually getting brighter as it broke free of the horizon and rose higher into the sky. It was the same moon that shone down on her parents, and on Thomas an Genevieve as well. But under this sky on the edge of Lake Wendouree, Lucien and Jean were the only ones that mattered.


End file.
